


The colour of carmine, and the taste of sangria

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tailor Shop, Implied Age Difference, M/M, Politician Tom Riddle, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Suit Kink, Suits, Tailor Harry Potter, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23033536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom needs a new suit, fortunately, Harry can provide.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 27
Kudos: 312
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching Phantom Thread again and this happened – heads up, I know absolutely nothing about tailoring.

Harry sat back on his stool, everyone else had already gone home hours ago, but he’d pulled the proverbial short straw and was now waiting for the last client of the day, or rather the night. Evening appointments weren’t especially rare, after all, their clients, typically, had busy lives, but still, seven was the latest appointment time, particularly for a full suit fitting – those tended to take a good couple of hours when done properly. 

He sighed and glanced down at the name in the ledger again: _Riddle_ , no first name, and no other identifier, not that that was uncommon amongst their more high-end clientele. The name in itself meant nothing to Harry, but the owners of this shop were keen on it, and by extension the man it belonged to, and they had told him to ‘be _accommodating_ to his needs.’

So, he was probably a decently ranked politician with just enough power to have it go to his ego, which didn’t fill Harry with much hope of enjoying this appointment. In his experiences, politicians tended to either be pompous and dull, or witty and conceited; neither of which were pleasant to be around for long stretches of time. Both types always talked of their own achievements too much and never lifted their arms right, but they willingly paid the exorbitant prices that contributed to Harry’s generous salary, so he was professional and courteous, even if he wasn’t friendly. 

Without really thinking, Harry glanced over at the clock, mounted on the wall, again. It was one minute to seven, and the second-hand clicked around the circular face rhythmically; Harry found himself tapping his fingers to the same beat and waiting patiently for the strike of the hour. When it came. The musical tune that accompanied it drowned out the tinkling of the bell above the door, and the first indication that Harry got that he was no longer alone, was a dark shadow spreading over the pale pages of the ledger. 

He jerked his head up, “oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t – ” Harry stopped as soon as his eyes focussed in on the man that was now standing on the other side of the reception desk because no one had warned him that the man was going to be that _handsome_. The gold hues of the antique chandelier lights that lit the ground floor brought out all the warm undertones in his skin, and the rich, earthy, tones in his eyes. The man smiled and Harry felt his mouth dry up, as though he was suddenly lying under a desert sun. 

“Riddle?” he managed to choke out. 

The man smiled again and dipped his head. “Yes,” he replied, his tone soft, and almost sultry, though perhaps that was just Harry’s active imagination; there was undertone too to his voice, something rough and uncultivated as though that sharp accent had been meticulously learnt, and was not, in fact, a natural sound on his tongue. Harry wanted to hear it more, to listen to the way Riddle wrapped his tongue around each and every letter of the English language.

“And you are?” Riddle prompted after they’d stood there in silence for a good twenty seconds too long. Anyone else might have got flustered by the obvious attention and unabashed staring that Harry was doing, but Riddle just held his gaze; albeit with an eyebrow raised and a smile spreading from the corner of his mouth. Clearly, he was a man who knew how good he looked. 

It took Harry several more seconds to process that he’d been asked a question. “Oh yes, I’m sorry – again – umm.” He swallowed and shook his head trying to find his brain somewhere inside. “Harry,” he managed eventually, “I’m Harry; it’s a pleasure to meet you,” as he said it, he stuck his hand out and Riddle took it in his own; his palm was warm and dry, and the skin was smooth because the people who came here never worked with their hands. When Riddle let go, Harry’s hand stayed, empty and cold, and suspended, hanging in the arm for a moment too long because, apparently, his brain had been disconnected from his motor functions.

Another stretching silence spilled out between them as Harry found himself distracted again, this time by the way that the shadows fell into Riddle’s hair, and showed every styled curl to absolute, sickening, perfection. And, for a moment, Harry was glad he hadn’t pursued his childhood dream of joining the Aurors, because if he had, he was sure he’d have had to arrest Riddle for a public indecency offence; after all, it _was_ indecent of him to look like that without even trying. 

Riddle just continued to coolly observe him, his head tilted back a fraction and his eyebrow still raised, though his mouth said he was more amused than annoyed by the entire affair, for it was curved upward into half a smile. The very picture of elegance and self-confidence, a poise that few men possessed but Harry had always found _essential_ when wearing a truly striking suit. 

“Well,” Riddle said, letting his eyes linger at Harry’s throat as he spoke, “are you going to invite me upstairs, Harry?” he continued, leaning in with what must have been his signature smile, “or do I have to strip for you right here?”

At that Harry nearly choked on his own saliva, already feeling an embarrassing flush creeping up from under his collar. It wasn’t, of course, the first time that a client had spoken to him in a tone that danced the line of provocativeness, but it was certainly the most audacious. The others were subtle and restrained, reticent even, and they certainly didn’t say anything before their clothes were off. But Riddle wasn’t being elusive in the slightest, and he just continued to smile, the tip of his tongue visible between his teeth.

The casualness of it all made Harry stumble with his words, “yes,” he said, “I mean no, I mean – ” He sighed, “just follow me – please” he said eventually, already half-defeated and he hadn’t even had a proper look at Riddle yet. Though he ticked that box as soon as he slid off his stool and walked around the reception desk. It was a subtle glance Harry would have liked to think, and one that made him swallowed again, hard this time. 

The suit Riddle was currently wearing must have already been tailored, at least, Harry hoped it was because no one had any right to look that good in an off-the-rack suit, especially one in such a nondescript shade of grey. The exact titanium colour of which that he _could_ wear because he could wear anything and look good, though Harry couldn’t help but think he’d look better in something earthier; something almost brutal in its colouring, something like carmine or maybe sangria. 

Well, there was only one way of finding out, one that involved going upstairs to the private fitting rooms and becoming intimately acquainted with every inch of Riddle’s body, which, by the looks of it was going to be a far more agreeable task than Harry had ever thought it would be. He swallowed again and raised his gaze to meet with Riddle’s, before gesturing for him to follow him up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, this is sickeningly self-indulgent

Harry had always liked the small and somewhat intimate spaces that constituted the upstairs fitting rooms. They were the right balance of cosy and professional; the space built for practicality but with enough soft furnishings and mellow curves to put most of their clients at ease, or, at least, to soothe them into a state of repose that made them, almost certainly unethically, more inclined to part with their money for expensive and entirely ornamental appurtenances. 

Though, that being said, Riddle didn’t seem the type to become victim to unscrupulous upselling. There was something too sharp about him, something that would look very good in a slim-fitting suit that showed off every critical angle of his being.

He continued right into the room, lighting it up as he did so. This was definitely Harry’s favourite fitting room; it was the largest and the one they typically reserved for people who were important, and because of that, Harry rarely got to use it. 

Hence, he had to actually look around when he first entered. Locating the full-length mirror immediately to the right of the door, and beside it, the corner of the room that was screened off with a heavy linen curtain. It gave their clients a final veil of modesty before they consented to have themselves so intimately scrutinised. Not that Harry had a tendency to look; he wasn’t interested in what they looked like with their clothes off – well – not usually. But Riddle might just prove himself to be the exception to that rule. 

Harry shook his head; he’d barely been around the man and he was already getting horrendously distracted. 

Without glancing over his shoulder to see if Tom was following, Harry moved further into the room, or, more precisely, down along the right-hand wall to where a large desk sat. There was no chair for it because it was more the space that was important, a place to put wands, or quills, or fabric samples rather than to sit at. Harry lingered there, a hand on the desk and cast his eye across the rest of the room.

Beyond the desk were these low leather chairs that caught the afternoon sunlight; the type that, had they been positioned different might have been reminiscent of a therapist’s sofa, but somehow managed to avoid such connotations by a hair’s breadth. The lighting was half the reason this room was so sought after, nothing would compare to natural lighting when seeing a suit be made, though now all that was left filling up the room was the artificial light of the candles spilling down from the ceiling. Their threads of colour splaying out over the carpet in hues of red and gold that had before felt so homely and comforting, but now just felt rather claustrophobic.

Quite unintentionally, the sight made a heat rise under Harry’s skin, not to truly uncomfortable levels, just this ever-present warmth spreading from underneath his collar; the sort that made him suck gulps of air between his teeth. 

He continued to stand there, unmoving by the desk, as Riddle walked it, his footsteps quite audible against the wooden floorboards. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Riddle gave the entire room one slow, smooth, and almost sinuous, examination. His eyes wandering over the curtains and the chairs and the stacks of tailoring accoutrements, all with the practised ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re looking for. 

The last thing that Riddle’s eyes settled on was Harry. He could feel it immediately, that prickling sensation on the back of his neck that he’d learnt to understand stemmed from customers trying to get his attention across the shop floor but was now being put to an entirely different purpose. It was undoubtedly a form of bait, though to catch what Harry wasn’t entirely sure, after all, it was rude to make presumptions. 

So he stayed still and tense with his spine straight and his back to Riddle.

Apparently, Riddle didn’t mind avoiding his gaze, because a few moments later was the sound of someone sitting; the fabric of their clothes sliding over the leather of the seat. Harry stole a glance. Riddle was sitting comfortably with his legs crossed, though somehow still spread obscenely across the sofa. One hand resting on the seat beside him, and the other pressed into the sofa’s arm, tracing one of the stitching lines. He looked entirely relaxed, as only people who are infinitely at ease in their own skin – the sort of look that Harry could never have made look so casual. 

Harry could and perhaps _should_ have immediately joined Riddle; sat on the sofa opposite him and discussed what they were going to do, after all, it was already late, and Riddle seemed to the type have places he needed to be. Though, that being said, for a glance, he didn’t look like he was in a rush to off. But Harry didn’t move. Rather, he stayed by the desk and fiddled with the think pad of paper just to distract himself from the immense, calling, emptiness that hovered behind him. 

Though there was only so long that you could prevaricate with a pad of paper, and his attention turned to the pen beside it. It was supposed to be a fresh quill every month and new ink weekly, but Harry how found that to be overly expensive, not to mention messy and inefficient, and so he was starting a quiet revolution by using a ballpoint.

And still, on the back of his neck, he could feel that familiar pricking of what must have been Riddle’s gaze watching him. The fact alone was not… unexpected, but regardless, it made him exhale heavily and reach up to touch the back of his neck, lest there be something that was so enrapturing Riddle’s attention. There was nothing, just the smooth sliver of his skin between the back of his collar and his hair, and Harry chanced another glance behind him. 

Riddle was indeed watching him, though it wasn’t an obnoxious gaze, nor was it one that was based in irritation at the length of time he was taking to perform such a simple task. Instead, it was steady and polite, though, like his voice there was this undertone that made Harry’s tongue become such a limp, useless, thing flopping against the roof of his mouth, and his heart to beat in these heavy thuds that were typically reserved exclusively for times of exhilaration, like scary movies and quidditch matches, and _not_ for handsome men watching his every move.

As he continued to observe Harry, Riddle’s mouth formed that hypnotic little smile, pulling out at the corner and lighting up his face with a sentiment that only got Harry’s heart throbbing harder.  
“Do take your time,” he said slowly, his gaze unwavering, “if I was in a hurry, I would have said so.”

Harry found himself nodded rather than speaking a reply because, all of a sudden, his tongue was being entirely uncooperative. He looked quickly back at the desk with a nod, if only to hide his own embarrassment. This was going to be the hardest few hours of his life, trust his luck to always get the unbearable clients – either incurably abhorrent or, apparently, incurably attractive. As he continued to stare at the wallpaper, Harry shook his head again, and then flushed because that was such an obvious gesture and he was supposed to be a professional, and professionals did _not_ get so distracted by their client’s face that they couldn’t even speak. 

He swallowed hard and picked up the pad and pen. “So,” Harry said, turning himself around to face Riddle, “Mr – ”

But he didn’t have a chance to finish that sentence before Riddle was politely interrupting him. “Please,” he said, that same smooth tone he had just used, though this time it was complemented by a slight tilting of his head to the side, “I’d prefer it if you just called me Tom.”

For a moment, Harry was taken aback, after all, most of their clients preferred to constantly remind him, exactly where they both were on social hierarchy, and wouldn’t dream of allowing their names in his mouth. But after swallowed again, he managed to stutter it out because the customer’s comfort was _far_ more important than his own mild uneasiness.

“Umm – of course – Tom,” he said, tasting the name as he spoke it, how it fitted in his mouth and the light weight of it on his tongue. It felt good. And despite the fact that it was such a common name, Tom made it look anything but; somehow, he turned that dull little thing into something sophisticated and classy, but still simplistic enough not to sound as pompous and pureblood as most of their clients were. 

With that peculiar and rather too intimate introduction out of the way, Harry crossed the space between them, with probably as much grace as the clumsiest of housecats, and sat opposite Tom. As he sat there, a part of him wanted to maintain the silence and just let his eyes wander, taking in what could only be described as a spectacle, until he knew how best to display it.

But that would probably be awkward, so instead, Harry shifted himself in the chair; feeling the pleasant coolness of the leather through his clothes, and welcoming its tangibility, without which he might have got lost, just floating away, caught on the fantasies promised by Tom’s smile and the brightness in his eyes.  
“Would you mind if I – uh,” Harry dipped his head, “asked you a couple of questions about what you’re looking for?” 

Without hesitation, Tom nodded; still watching him. “By all means,” he said, “ask away.”

Harry swallowed again and gripped the pen tighter; somehow it was easier when they interrupted him with their grandiose plans for suits that were physically impossible to make. Now though, he was on his own, as it were, having to be the one leading the conversation and prizing out of Tom’s brain exactly what he wanted.

With his head still dipped, and his focus down on his empty pad of paper, Harry was still getting distracted. There was something about the off-white colour of that paper that was a calming contrast to the rest of the room, in particular, to the dark, heavy feeling that emanated from Tom’s figure. It wasn’t much, but it was discernible when there were no other distractions; just this certain murky impression that oozed out of him. Or, perhaps it was the other way around, that Tom created an asphyxiating vacuum, which just sucked all the freshness from the room and replaced it with this hot, luscious feeling that was usually reserved for far more risqué occasions; the sort where such a gaze becomes indecent. 

But here, it was merely tantalising.

“Alright – umm,” Harry shifted again, “what is it exactly that you’re looking for?” he said, looking up from the paper to meet Tom’s eyes, before hurriedly looking down again. “As in,” he continued, “is there a specific style… or fabric… or colour that you were hoping for?”

After all, some of their clients came here with such fantastical visions, however impractical, and frankly outrageous they were and demanded that they were made to their exact specifications, only to find themselves disgusted with the result. Of course, they always blamed the tailor for their own ill-conceived abomination, and Harry had lost count now of the number of times he’d had to stay up late in one of the rooms upstairs, perfecting a new design set to more reasonable stipulations. 

Tom didn’t answer immediately. In fact, he merely leaned back into the sofa and seemed to get himself more comfortable, before flicking his gaze up.  
I’m afraid,” he started, still wearing that same half-smile that looked so good, “that in stylistic matters, I defer exclusively to my tailor.” 

As he spoke, Harry managed to keep his eyes from deviating from Tom’s, at least, he managed it until Tom repositioned his arm. For the movement, though casual, was enough that the side of his jacket slipped out of place and Harry found himself staring at the way that the fabric of Tom’s shirt clung to his skin, moving and shifting as he did. 

He was jolted back to reality by Tom speaking again. 

“I trust your taste unequivocally, Harry,” he said, licking his lips as he spoke until Harry licked his own in response and immediately flushed again. For there was something undeniably satisfying, and almost tasty, in the way he spoke; not to mention that it was nice to be respected for once. To have someone not only trust his opinion but _want_ it too was quite the heady feeling, and it got a hum going like an electrical current under Harry’s skin.

He nodded and shifted himself once more, the leather already feeling hotter than it should have, and the sound of the fabric of his shirt, sticking both to his skin and to the back of the chair so unbearably loud.  
“Can I ask the occasion then?” he said, resolving not to move again until absolutely necessary. When Tom didn’t immediately answer, Harry continued, “after all, wedding attire is – obviously – very different to office attire – as I’m sure you know.”

Even as he said it, Harry shifted his eyes around the room, really looking at anything other than Tom; he didn’t really know why either, it was just _hard_ to look at him. But Tom himself seemed to take the silence, and avoidance of his gaze, as an opportunity to draw _extra_ attention to himself. He uncrossed his legs and instead sat with them spread just far enough to be provocative; his hand resting on his thigh in what was such a deliberate, calculated even, gesture, that Harry found himself clenching his hand that wasn’t holding the paper and pen, digging his nails into his palm and biting his tongue. 

Tom just quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head forward ever so slightly. On anyone else, it would have been arrogant egotism, but Tom somehow managed to keep it on the right side, so that it merely oozed inimitable confidence. One that Harry couldn’t decide whether it was something he wanted to embody, or just something he wanted.

Either way, he was staring. 

After another couple of moments of silence punctuated only by blinking, Tom spoke again. “It’s for an engagement party,” he said, “not mine though.”  
The last clause was added just slow enough for it to be out of confidence and not desperation, but there still seemed to be an edge of something to it – a veiled suggestion behind the words. After all, Harry didn’t technically _need_ to know whether it was his own engagement, and yet he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t _wanted_ to know. 

Without thinking, Harry glanced down at his paper again, it was still blank, but the absence of writing was frankly the least of his problems. The biggest of which, was the fact there was a horrifically handsome man sitting opposite him, who wanted Harry to dress him however he liked _and_ it was for an engagement party; that, to be perfectly honest, was every tailor’s greatest fantasy. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding, though it was more to ground himself back into reality than anything else, “is there a – signature piece that you’re intending to wear?” He swallowed. “For instance, a watch…, a certain belt… specific tie, even cufflinks?” he said, trying not to picture how outrageously good Tom would look with classic gold accessories. Or, perhaps, if he was feeling more modern, a warm black, reminiscent of smouldering coals; the sort of colour that matched his eyes and highlighted every peak and hollow of that horribly attractive physicality.

Yes, he mused, a traditional black leather belt with a gold buckle, positioned just low enough on his waist to get people’s imagination running away from them; the sort of accessory that was sophisticated but sensual. Containing enough black not to be immediately noticed, but enough colour to catch a person’s eye and then make their eyes linger in places they shouldn’t. 

Not that Tom seemed the type of man who minded attracting attention to himself, and commanding it for his own purposes, if anything, Harry would have said he encouraged it. Just as he was doing now as he curved his spine back as he stretched, as he ran his hand through his hair in exactly the way Harry would have liked to – for professional reasons, of course.

Professional reasons that included feeling whether it was as soft as it looked like it might be and seeing how good Tom looked with his hair artfully unsettled. Probably offensively. After all, he was almost certainly one of those fortunate people who are able to embody being dishevelled, as well as being debonair. 

Tom interrupted that mildly inappropriate thought – and thank goodness because, _Merlin_ , this was an actual _client_ and however good he looked, Harry really shouldn’t be thinking of him like that. 

“I’m afraid not,” Tom said, though it sounded less apologetic and more daring, as though he was deliberately challenging Harry to make him something he’d like with as few specifications as possible. And still, he smiled all dazzling and gorgeous and definitely made for those rich colours, the ones that would keep everyone’s attention on him even when it should be elsewhere. 

“So you’ll let me do anything to you?” Harry said, immediately regretting that particular word choice because it was so, unintentionally mind you, suggestive. Though his penance came swiftly, and in the form of a cherry-red blush spilling down from his ears. 

But Tom just continued to smile, before leaning in a little closer, the points of his elbows resting on his thighs. “Yes, Harry,” he said, holding his gaze, “I’ll let you do _anything_ you want to me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this took so long to materialise, not to mention that it's a little long and just not that good. Sorry.

Harry knew he was sitting with his mouth open. Simply startled by the sheer audacity of it, though that was somewhat offset by the thrill that it induced; that thrumming in Harry’s heart and the unwanted heat of his palms. He swallowed, lingering in the silence, or rather wallowing in it, letting each syllable of Tom’s words have their due seismic weight realised, and a faint, barely conceived, but nonetheless present, list of things he’d like to do, forming in the back of his head. 

To make matters worse, Harry was becoming rapidly, and painfully _aware_ of himself. From the scratching of the collar against his neck and the sticking of his shirt on his back, to the nervous twitching of his fingers as they pressed into the sofa’s creases, and, of course, the heaviness of each breath he took. Still too were Tom’s eyes wandering over him, not staring, but certainly watching, possibly even examining. 

Harry stood up, and it must have been a sudden, surprising, gesture because Tom took a moment to react properly and sit back; instead, staying leaned forward for a while longer than necessary. Like that, they both watched each other for another few seconds – Tom with his head inclined upward, and Harry’s facing down. Somehow that moment felt, all at once intense and evocative and gorgeous, but also suffocating, making the necessary words stick to Harry’s tongue.

“I’m going– ” he said, finally tearing his eyes away from Tom’s as he stepped all quick and uneven towards the desk, “ –to need you to take off your…” he glanced back, trying not to picture it. “…Umm, your jacket, and shoes, and belt, and your tie too – please, and then I need you to stand in front of the mirror – please.”

Fortunately, Tom didn’t reply to that awful stuttered sentence, he just smiled what was practically a signature smile by now and stood up. With one last lingering look, Tom brushed past him with all the confidence in the world and went to the curtain in the corner, disappearing behind it and pulling it shut.

As soon as he heard that sound, Harry dropped his head forward, his hands flat against the desk, and took a long, heavy, inhale; just an attempt to fill his lungs with enough oxygen, so that he wouldn’t suffocate in the next half an hour. But that was looking more and more likely, especially with Tom flaunting those smiles and handing out tasty words like they were luxury chocolate samples.

Harry stepped away from the desk, still weakly gripping the pad and pen; he should probably actually write something soon instead of just holding it for show. For now, though, he turned back toward the wall behind him, the one opposite the desk, where they kept the fabric samples, he’d already decided on red, but the next consideration was the fabric itself. Harry licked his lips and looked over the options. He himself had always preferred the more sumptuous selections, the ones that were luxuriant, and smooth, and glossy to touch.

Of course, they were also the more expensive fabrics – the silk, and velvet, and cashmere that were so exclusive to most people, but were second nature to the wealthy. That being said, he should probably have mentioned pricing at some point, but Tom didn’t really seem to be the type to worry about the price tag. At least, not if it was something that he wanted. 

Moving back down the room towards the door, and the curtain, behind which Harry could hear the faint sounds of fabric sliding over fabric, and the shuffling of shoes against the wood. He glanced over to the curtain, and to his surprise he saw a blurred silhouette outlined against the linen; apparently, the positioning of the candles behind the curtain created a dark outline, and either no one had brought a client in here late enough to know about it, or no one thought that it was a big enough problem to fix. 

But whichever it was, Harry now just stood there, watching the shadow stretch as Tom raised his arms and the curve of his spine when he bent forward. Harry swallowed; his mouth and throat all of a sudden as arid and sear as the yellow fields nearby during a drought because he _shouldn’t_ be staring. But he was. Continuing to watch, he pressed his palms against the side of his trousers, trying and failing to stop them trembling as his mind provided an entire slideshow of inappropriate thoughts to accompany that faint shadow. 

He was still standing there, watching the curtain intently when Tom pulled it back, and stood there, framed by the light and curtains, and looking offensively attractive. Though the most obvious thing, at least from a tailoring perspective, was that shirt, and the fact that was entirely indecent in the very best way possible. Perhaps not the fit that Harry would have chosen for him, but when Tom was standing there so casually with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a hand resting against the wall, it took his breath away.

From the way it clung to his waist and pulled tight around his elbows, to the line of the buttons that trailed a path right up to his throat, and down below the waistband of his trousers to a place that Harry should absolutely _not_ be thinking about, but was anyway; he looked undeniably, and indeed mouth-wateringly delectable. 

So, in the guise of professional curiosity, but underpinned with selfish prying, Harry let his eyes wandering shamelessly as he took in each straight line and gentle curve. It was obvious when looking at him like this that whilst the jacket Tom had been wearing hadn’t been a bad fit, it certainly hadn’t shown off the tapered line of his waist nearly as well as it should have done. Nor did it draw appropriate attention to his shoulders, or his chest, or his neck, or anything, really.

That jacket was nice but forgettable, and Tom did not like the sort of man who should be forgotten; he wouldn’t be by the time Harry was finished with him. 

Harry was still staring when he realised that Tom was returning the gaze with the same concentration, though far more nonchalantly. His neck tilted back and his head a little to the side in that same way as before, and his hands now resting confidently by his sides; the fingers crooked ever so slightly, and the ridges of his knuckles visible. By the way he was watching, with the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, he looked like he found something, or _someone_ , amusing. 

Eventually, he spoke. “Do you see something you like, Harry?”

In the thrill, Harry forgot himself. “Yes,” he practically breathed, his eyes flittering between the perfect lines of Tom’s hands and the equally perfect lines that spread, and intersected, and overlapped, to form the rest of him. He was so involved in that meticulous exploration of every dip and hollow and ridge, that it was a good thirty seconds before Harry realised what he’d just admitted. 

He flushed again. “I mean – no – well yes – umm…” He stumbled awkwardly, his tongue being singularly uncooperative, even as Tom looked in the same composed poise he’d worn since he’d arrived.  
“It looks good on you,” Harry managed eventually; this time dipping his eyes down to the floor and hoping that Tom wasn’t going to be observant enough to notice the trickling colour, the shade of strawberries, that was continuing to ooze over his cheeks. 

Tom smiled properly now, and, for a moment, his eyes dipped to the floor. When he looked up again, they were practically glittering, and he took a small step towards Harry. “What looks good on me, Harry?” he said, his tone dipping low and warm like chocolate and hot molasses. 

“Umm…” He swallowed, “your shirt,” Harry said, not daring to meet his eye.

“It’s only a shirt.”

Still, Harry kept his eyes on the wood of the floor; his ears burning and a thick, heavy lump filling up his entire throat. “You’d be – surprised how many men don’t know how to wear a shirt,” he choked out, his mind briefly supplying a film-reel of horror stories whose protagonists were all men in horrendous colours that offended the eye, or cuts that were just so wrong, or even worse _patterns_ that were as ill-judged as they were nauseating. 

But Tom just dipped his head again and took another step closer. Instinctively Harry took one step back towards the wall, which only made Tom smile as he brushed past him again, their skin briefly touching, to stand up on the low, flat stool where Harry had asked him to.  
“ _You_ certainly do though,” Tom said, pausing and letting his gaze drop down the length of Harry’s torso, “I have to say, you wear that shirt well,”

His eyes rose to meet Harry’s again, “ _very_ well.”

At that, Harry flushed an even deeper shade of red and half-spluttered, half-nodded an all-around pathetic reply, and then, as though it would save him from his own embarrassment, he mumbled something about measuring and just dropped to his knees. As he did so, hearing Tom make a sound that might have merely been a gentle exhale, or, could have been a faint sigh; either way, it burned his ears and made every single nerve ending spike up. It was unbearable, but at least this way, he wouldn’t have to look at Tom’s smile, whilst his own cheeks flushed so very red. 

And anyway, Harry tried to reason, he always started from the base of the foot and worked his way up the client, as it were. Shoe size, leg, waist, torso, arm, shoulder, and neck; those were the key measurements, though they could easily be supplemented by a whole host of additional measurements from wrists to thighs. But Harry doubted he could make it through any of _those_ measurements, so he’d merely do the basics and then adjust the rest later as necessary. 

Harry shifted slightly, still keeping his head down. Instead of looking up, he focussed his attention on a combination of the floor, the pad of paper, and the hem of Tom’s trousers. In this position, the same one that he always worked in to measure the leg and the inner seam, Tom could quite easily have made things difficult.

But Tom was a good client and didn’t fidget or twitch or squirm, or otherwise move at inappropriate times, if anything, Harry would have said he was _too_ still. Just standing completely motionless in ways that few people would be able to for prolonged periods of time. But Tom looked like he could stand forever, and that made Harry think of things he shouldn’t. Things like standing with Tom late at night, and composing for him alluring suits; after all, Harry had aspirations that extended far beyond the half-decent job he currently had.

Despite the obvious wandering of his thoughts, Harry’s next words still surprised even himself. 

“What do you do?” he found himself asking, in part because he genuinely wanted to know where attractive men like Tom collected, and in part, as an attempt to make half-hearted conversation; after all, this was probably the first time that Harry didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts as he worked. Mostly because those thoughts were just _awful_. Harry shook his head a little again, as those awful thoughts began to flow in indecent directions far quicker than they should; instead, he glanced up at Tom. 

At that moment, Tom was also glancing down and they held each other’s eyes. “I’m in politics,” he said, using that same, even tone that was so successful in creating an artificial intimacy, or maybe even a genuine intimacy; the sort of which Harry hadn’t felt in a long time, but was now stitched into the very air he breathed. It made his lungs itch, and his hands tremble more than they should, fumbling with the tape measure as he tried to measure the leg without touching too much. 

Harry swallowed hard and looked away briefly, his mouth tightening – he’d never, imagined Tom as a politician, not when he was so _different_ to the usual political class that they got coming I here.  
“You look surprised,” Tom said, his words alone forcing Harry to look up again, and confront Tom’s pupils drifting all over his features. Admiring the angles of his knees and the slope of his shoulders, all with a certain intensity that made Harry shift himself, twisting his back and, once again, fumbling with the tape. 

“Well, it’s just that – you don’t look the – type,” Harry said, aware of, but avoiding Tom’s gaze as he leaned over and scribbled down a number on the paper. His handwriting making it nearly illegible for anyone else to read, but no one else would ever need to; as long as Tom was satisfied with him, Harry intended to keep him exclusively to himself, however selfish it was. 

“And why is that?”

“You’re not old,” Harry said quietly, what he _didn’t_ say was that Tom was actually attractive, and vivacious, and dynamic, and he looked like he was interesting, when he spoke, rather than a droning puppet of the state. Needless to say, Harry had never had must faith in politics or the politicians that that brought those nebulous concepts into actuality, though a good portion of those negative sentiments undoubtedly came from having to listen to them prattle on about their own achievements during every fitting. 

“I’m older than you.”

Harry swallowed again. It was something that he’d noted, not consciously, rather it was a subconscious awareness. A feature that he’d discerned immediately, just as he did with every man and woman that walked through their doors, but one that he was only just coming to appreciate the potential of right this moment. He would never say that his _type_ was an older partner, but he certainly had a proclivity that bordered on a predilection.

An older man possessed a certain maturity that his younger counterparts lacked, and a wealth of experienced that Harry had always found attractive, but perhaps more importantly, was the fact that age was often accompanied by a more influential disposition – one that was equal parts evocative and dominating. Of course, there was nothing… obviously, or even deliberately similar in the individuals that Harry had always been drawn to, but there was always _something_ in the way that they carried themselves; a particular confidence in their own ability, and a level of control in their lives, and, naturally, understanding. 

For, with age came an understanding of what you wanted, and you learnt to appreciate your tastes more and more. To savour them, and Harry had found he rather liked being savoured by people who were old enough to admit it, instead of fumbling around with the angst of youth, before eventually giving up.

Tom certainly looked like a man who knew what he wanted, and one who knew exactly how to get it. 

But instead of answering, and addressing those thoughts properly, Harry mumbled something vague and quiet and shifted himself to the right so that he was right in front of Tom like he had been with a hundred other clients; though none of them had felt this intimate, let alone this suggestive. Not that Tom was doing anything to level such accusations of impropriety; if anything, he was probably one of the best clients Harry had ever had the pleasure of measuring. He stood still, he stood straight, he didn’t gibber, and on top of that, he was the very definition of easy on the eyes. 

Particularly when, from this very singular angle, most other people were unattractive. But not Tom, of course not Tom. He just stood there, his gaze directed downward to watch Harry and his mouth wet from where he’d run his tongue slowly over it. Harry averted his eyes, but not before he caught the slight flickering of Tom’s hand. It wasn’t much, merely a clenching of the fist and a quiet cracking of the knuckles, but the initial suddenness of the movement, followed by a slowing deliberation suggested that Tom had wanted to do something brash, something like touching what wasn’t _technically_ his to touch. 

That he nearly _had_ touched.

Not that Harry would have objected to Tom’s hands running down his cheek, his knuckles sliding against his jaw, or – maybe – the pads of his fingers pressed into Harry’s hair. He’d like that more than he was prepared to admit. Just feeling the warmth of Tom’s hands, and the smooth touch of his palms, and the rough drag of his fingers as he pulled at Harry’s hair and positioned his head how he wanted it. 

Harry shifted again, biting his lip, before standing up quickly and without warning; the measurements weren’t the most accurate he’d ever done, but – Merlin – he couldn’t spend another minute down on his knees. Especially not when he was imagining Tom’s hands in his hair, and his head pulled back, and his jaw aching as Tom’s breathing became frayed at the edges and those audacious words just got caught on his tongue. 

It was better for everyone that he stood up, avoided Tom’s gaze and just measured some part else. Though the next part of the client’s body that he would typically measure was the waist, and that always involved standing _ever_ so close.

With a heavy swallowed and a deep inhale, Harry stepped closer to Tom, closer than he’d ever been, Harry could smell the undertones of Tom’s cologne; that rich, sweet scent that had him leaning closer still, and inhaling deeper than he should. He was no by no means a connoisseur of cologne, but he had smelled enough to know when a man was wearing one that suited him, and this scent _certainly_ suited Tom. 

Though it was faded with the day and worn with use, Harry could still sense the place on his neck where it was ingrained into the skin. He’d probably be able to taste it even if he mouthed at Tom’s neck, and ran his tongue over his – 

Harry stopped that thought from going any further. After all, he still needed to measure this man, and that was going to be infinitely harder if he was thinking about touching him in any inappropriate capacity available, but especially with his _tongue_. So, he wouldn’t. He’d just measure him, whilst taking the liberty to lean hideously close so that his hair would tickle Tom’s neck, and he’d shift, Harry would like to think, just that little bit closer. 

But for now, Harry continued to skim his hands over the tight lines of Tom’s waist, and Harry did try his very best to be professional and not let his fingers linger for a moment longer than necessary, and that would be so much easier if Tom didn’t move like _that_. Just on the right side of minimal that Harry couldn’t say for certain that it was deliberate, but it still felt too much to be accidental; and every time that Tom shifted Harry’s palms would unintentionally graze over his waist and rest there for a second longer than they should. 

Even through his shirt, Harry could feel the warmth of Tom’s skin, and sharp lines of his body, the ones that he would absolutely like to touch in more detail but was refraining from doing so for the sake of professionalism, and the lesser fact that when he started he doubted he could stop. 

“You’re very good with your hands,” Tom murmured, his eyes following Harry’s fingers as they ran down the length of the tape to measure his torso. Harry looked up from what he was doing, and for another, long, moment their eyes met. “So meticulous,” Tom continued, dragging out each syllable, “it makes me wonder what else they can do.”

Harry actually bit his tongue that one, pushing the muscle between his teeth to stop any sort of response, least of all something inappropriate because there were a lot of inappropriate responses hanging on the very tip of his tongue. 

Of course, he _could_ ask him to stop, Tom looked like the type who would at least consider it, but that would imply that Harry didn’t appreciate every single word that came out of that mouth, and that would be an outright lie. Because although they made his stomach swing low, and his mouth feel so dry, and his brain become this mushy, useless thing, Harry still hung on to each and every word that Tom spoke. He still committed the intonation and the pitch to memory in case it was the last time he got to hear it. 

Instead, though, Harry just stepped back, far enough that he _could_ have had a nice look at Tom, but right now he kept his head turned towards the floor and fingers gripping his pad and pen too hard. 

He kept his eyes to the floor as he too the few, nervous, steps that positioned him behind Tom; each one of them was horrendously loud and seemed to coincide with the thumping of his heart. Harry stopped when he was directly behind him, standing in front of the space between his shoulder blades, and trying not to think of running his fingers down the length. The tips of his nails dragging over the sinews and muscles and bones that made up Tom’s body, in part to watch him squirm, and the rest because he _really_ wanted to just touch him. 

As though he sensed that Harry was staring, Tom moved ever so slightly, his shirt shifting over his shoulders and his skin. Harry just continued to stare, vaguely wondering how people managed to have a conversation with Tom without being so painfully distracted; maybe they were just used to it, or maybe they averted their eyes, or maybe, as Harry suspected, it was far more simple: _everyone_ was attracted to him.

So it was in a tight, and somewhat pained silence that Harry pressed the line of the tape against Tom’s back, and made a note of his shoulders, before moving on to the arm length. And constantly, he was aware of the warmth of Tom’s skin through the shirt, and how relaxed he looked with someone else’s hands touching him; it made Harry curious.

It made him want to touch until he got a reaction, and then touch a little more. 

But he managed to keep that part of him under control, and he didn’t touch more than he absolutely _had_ to, at least, he didn’t until it came to measuring the collar. As soon as the prospect of all but wrapping his hands around Tom’s neck became a reality, Harry couldn’t help but swallow, especially when Tom’s eyes were flickering. The round circle of his pupil widened and the iris, darker and even more shiny than before, rather like tempered chocolate. 

With an apparent confidence that really only ran skin-deep, Harry stepped in even closer than before and looped the tape around the back of Tom’s neck. But he couldn’t measure properly, not when Tom’s collar was in the way. For a long, long while they stayed there; Tom’s eyes steady, and Harry’s roaming wildly, each waiting for the other to solve the problem. No one moved. They scarcely even breathed. 

Harry swallowed, the tips of his teeth resting on his bottom lip and his hands trembling before he’d even done anything. This was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid because now his lungs were so tight that he could barely breathe, and his tongue had tied itself up so many times he wasn’t sure when he’d next be able to speak.

“What are you waiting for, Harry?” Tom murmured, not taking his eyes off his own, “my permission?”

If it was even possible, his lungs curled up further, and all the oxygen seemed to dissipate from his bloodstream, just when he needed it the most. Not that Tom appeared to care as such; he was still standing there with his back straight, and his eyes glazed, and his tongue wetting his lips so slowly, so _gorgeously_. Without really thinking, Harry raised his hand, ignoring how the fingers quivered, and pushed against the topmost button of Tom’s shirt, until it undid itself, and revealed the hollow of Tom’s throat and the very edge of his collarbone. 

Harrys’ fingers were still trembling by the time he brought the ends together right at the crest of Tom’s throat. Like that, Harry could feel how truly _hot_ the skin at Tom’s neck was; the sort of heat that made his fingers stick to the tape and the same, half-embarrassed, half-attracted, warmth collect under his collar. With any other client, Harry would have whipped the tape off the second he’d got the measurement, but with Tom he found himself lingering; shamelessly feeling the contours of his throat with the pads of his fingers and watching the slight movements of Tom’s mouth. The upward curve at the corner and the apparent softness right in the centre. 

For one, stupid, moment Harry wanted to kiss him - like _really_ wanted to kiss him - which was ridiculous because he barely knew him, and surely everyone must have got like that around him. But then again, there was the way that Tom was looking at him, with that dark, hypnotic gaze that was surely – hopefully – filled with indecent intentions. 

Tom swallowed thickly and it sounded so inappropriately loud, but there was no nervousness infused into it, not like Harry’s own anxious swallows; rather, there was something… _else_ instilled into the action. Something tantalising that made the moment heavy and every breath feel charged, and Harry would swear that he could feel Tom’s pulse pick up under his fingers and the heat of his gaze increase by a few degrees. 

Harry was the one to drag them both back to reality. 

He stepped back, one step and then two, almost stumbling until he felt the firmness of the door on his back. It was only then, when he was standing with something tangible and solid behind him, and with the tape hanging loosely in his hand, that he appreciated how heavy his breathing seemed to be, and how absurdly fast his heart was pounding under his skin. Tom looked just as serene as ever, though, there was a faint, and it was so faint that Harry might have been imagining it, a speckling of peach-pink flush just visible in the open slit of his collar. 

Three deep breaths later, Harry looked up at Tom. They were half-way through, he thought to himself and he would get through the rest even if it killed him, which, by the feel of his heart, it very much might. He swallowed again. “I – umm – I need you to get…” The words caught in his throat and stuck on his tongue, “…get – undressed now, if that’s… alright?” he said, looking more at the curtains behind them, than at Tom’s face

But he still caught Tom’s smile. “Oh, Harry, I thought you were never going to ask.”


End file.
